


echo through my hallow insides

by atlaslov



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, nothing really happens though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:26:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlaslov/pseuds/atlaslov
Summary: this is literally just me venting through a character but I thought I'd post in case someone might relate





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for some reason I always use male pronouns when I vent-write and Jeremy was the person I was thinking of/through while writing this
> 
> also a little note on the s/h suicide tags, it's not really graphic, per se, just really blunt and doesn't use pretty language. regardless, be careful!
> 
> anyway,

He's not even sad. He's not upset at anything, not angry. Not even empty or numb either, there's just nothingness. And yet, he's never wanted to die more than he has in this exact moment. 

He walks out to the kitchen for a granola bar, reaches into the cabinet above where his mother is scrubbing the toaster too violently to not be upset. She heaves a sigh as he pulls a package from the box, almost knocking it over in the process. 

"Are you upset at something?" He asks, genuine, despite being unable to actually feel it to realize it. 

she shoves the toaster back against the wall and says "no, this kitchen just gets old." 

She's referring to the constant upkeep of everyday life: washing dishes, wiping counters, etc., which really was a task, even for only three people. 

He grunts in affirmation and backs out of her way, losing whatever ability to empathize that had shown up briefly and just as soon checked out. 

His mom exits the kitchen and he's staring at the unopened package in his hand. 

He rotates aimlessly on his heels and says monotone, "I don't want this." Yet still with an air like the statement was an epiphany that would solve the world's problems. 

He opens the cabinet and returns the granola bar to its box and walks quickly out of the kitchen, happening to catch his mom as she's walking into the bathroom to clean. 

"What?" She says, like she heard his eye opening statement, but was too far away to _hear_ it. 

He's tired. Wants to be alone. Wants to... do something. That's not here. He doesn't know. 

"Nothing." He says simply. She doesn't ask. 

He returns to his room and sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor. 

What now?

He's alone, staring at the carpet where his legs intersect to form a wide 'v'. He can hear an electric buzzing across the hall in the bathroom. Then the noise stops and he hears that one floorboard squeak under the carpet, the one that's notorious for doing so, and then quiet thumps as footsteps retreat down the stairs. 

His eyes are fuzzy and he's sure he's not really here right now. He doesn't feel all that real. 

He wants to tell someone that he feels like _this_ , again, for the first time in a really long time. If there's anything he's learned in the long process to 'recovery', whatever that is, is that it's okay to ask for the attention of someone when you need help. Everyone needs a support system and he knows he has people who would be willing to give him the attention but before he can fully form the rationalization, he stops himself. 

The only thought he can really think is "I want to die again" and it's echoing around his hollow insides and it's the only thing that matters right now. 

He doesn't want to explain himself to someone, he can't explain himself. And texting your closest friend who you sort of have a strained relationship with because of tiny little things that keep adding up _it's your fault it's your fault_ would be kind of dramatic. 

He imagines his friend waking up with a text that says "I want to die again" from someone he hadn't talked to in a week with no context or explanation. 

Dramatic. 

He just wants to be alone, but he's bursting with realization and suffocating _nothingness_ and _I want to die again_ floats in there somewhere and he _has to tell someone._

A candle on his dresser flickers. It's vanilla scented, which is supposed to be calming. That's why he lit it. It's not really doing anything because it's not strong enough for him to smell and he's not feeling anything that needs to be calmed anyway. 

He picks a stray fiber on one of his scrunched up tube socks covering his still criss-crossed legs. It's his favorite pair. 

He remembers he forgot to take his antidepressant this morning. He's not even supposed to be on an antidepressant because he wasn't depressed. His doctor told him it was supposed to function like an anti anxiety. It was supposed to replace the buspirone when that made him depressed. 

He looks at the square bottle full of pink pills and wonders how many would kill him. 

He is seized suddenly and finds his phone, googling 'viibryd overdose'. 

When nothing particularly useful returns he changes his search to 'how much viibryd is fatal' and discovers that vilazodone hydrochloride is an SSRI, and he already knows, from experience, it's really hard to overdose with an SSRI. 

He hears a vacuum start humming loudly in the hall outside his closed bedroom door and gradually move away toward the kitchen. 

He keeps thinking about the flimsy razor blades he took out of disposable shavers a while back. Like, a _while_ back. He kept them, which was stupid, but he couldn't ever bring himself to toss them out. Even after two- three?- years of nothing. 

And yet.

There's nothing to stop him from taking one and slitting both wrists wide open. 

He won't do that. He knows he won't. It's such a violent, painful way to die. He doesn't want to ruin his clothes or stain the carpet. He hates thinking of the cleanup his family will have to do if they stay in the house. 

He turns on an alarm to wake him for school in the morning; he finally went back, finally felt like he could go back, and now he's here in the same mental place he was two years ago when he stopped going to school. 

The vacuuming stops and a few moments later he hears it start again, but this time it's downstairs. 

He curls up under his comforter in only a sports bra, boxers, and socks, wondering if there's supposed to be a storm that might snap a tree and collapse the roof on top of him. 

There isn't. He knows there isn't. 

It's November and the weather says mild, partly cloudy and a high of 72 degrees. It's a bizarrely warm autumn they've been having this year. 

Maybe he'll get into a car accident on the way to school tomorrow and only kills him. He doesn't want his dad or anyone else involved to be hurt, but it would be a convenient way to die without actually having to kill yourself. 

The vacuuming stops again and he hears the crack of a Milwaukee's Best Light cracking open. 

His mom had _cancer_ and still refuses to stop smoking and drinking her _nine_ beers every evening. She said that once, one of the nurses during her treatment thought that number was a typo in the patient profile. 

She's been doing it for as long as he has memories of her, and if that doesn't convince him that wanting to die runs in the family, what else will?

He thinks again of the box of razor blades and how much he wants to use one to split open his wrists and be done. 

He turns over, and goes to sleep.


	2. Elephant in the room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is another blatant vent lol, I don't really have anywhere else to put this up. It's more for just letting it out somewhere and knowing someone will see it than for pity or validation or whatever. 
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading <3

There's a certain level of irony in taking a college psychology course when he hasn't had anything but a cayenne pepper detox water for almost three days now. 

It's hard enough trying not to think too deeply about himself--he's had enough self-psychoanalysis for one lifetime--but now he has to do an assignment that consists of reading case studies and applying the seven major psychological perspectives to figure out the causes of behavior. Essentially doing exactly what he's been avoiding for himself. 

It takes an enormous amount of effort to drag his laptop from its idle position and start it up again. There's a quiz due at 11:59 and he's been procrastinating all weekend. They were never difficult, but the fear of a triggering question popping up always settled in and made it tough to actually work. 

"A psychologist wants to treat a patient in an eating disorder clinic by asking that she eat more and gain weight. Which of the four main goals of psychology does this treatment best describe?" 

Unfortunate. 

His immediate reaction is empathy--he imagines himself in that situation and the fear response is enough to let him know that he doesn't want recovery. Ever. 

In another ironic twist, he attributes his initial weight loss success to the antidepressants on his nightstand. He's been grappling with weight issues since the seventh grade, but the recent prescription made his appetite all but disappear. 

Twenty pounds later and his mom has commented on his weight numerous times. 

He's really good at diverting and denying her suspicions. 

"You need to eat. You haven't eaten anything all day." 

He feigns ignorance. Acts casual. Reassures her. 

"Have I not? I don't even think about it because the meds make me lose my appetite." He'll eat something for show now. 

He'll pull an apple from refrigerator, slice it, and arrange the slices in a fan on a small plate. (95) Put one slice of whole grain bread in the toaster. (70) 

He'll eat it, rinse the plate of evidence, and tell his mom he had two slices (with peanut butter! for protein). 

The conversation comes up more than he'd like, he gets paranoid using the same explanations for too long. 

"You're starting to look anorexic." 

Raise the eyebrows in surprise. Fake shock. 

"Really? I don't think I've lost any weight. Haven't weighed myself in a long time." 

He weighed himself that morning (he weighs himself every morning), while she was asleep. It was the first time since eighth grade he saw the 120s. 

They kept their scale in the hall outside the bathroom under a curio cabinet full of glass angels and Jesus paraphernalia. 

Apparently his mom was more observant than he gave her credit for, because she called him out a while ago saying she noticed he weighed himself a lot. 

He was so genuinely shocked all he could reply with was 'what?' 

She had pointed out the drag marks on the carpet from him pulling it out every day. 

How could he have been so stupid?

He was much more careful from then on, making sure to re-press the carpet so it looked more natural. 

 

-  
There's a logical part of him that knows he has a problem, but there's an even bigger part of him that thinks his weight is far too high to ever be considered dangerous. 

And yeah he is down 20 pounds, but he still has a healthy BMI and quite a bit of jiggle in his walk. 

Besides, he had it under control, as far as he's concerned the 'problem' didn't exist. 

Famous last words from those with eating disorders; 'I have it under control.'

**Author's Note:**

> I really have no explanation other than I use idealized versions of a character to vent frustrations and confusions lol. 
> 
> I know it's not really finished, or like, there's no closure, but I probably won't write any more with this


End file.
